Fast Until Death

Kerala is in a panic at present over fears that the Mulliperiyar Dam, built in the high ranges might collapse. The dam, situated in Kerala is over 100 years old and holds water for the neighbouring state of Tamil Nadu and comes under their jurisdiction. If the dam fails its water will spill down through Kerala with varied apocalyptic predictions of how much damage that might cause. Tamil Nadu stands to loose its water only.

The debate has raged for years but has come to a head recently after a series of earthquakes up to 3.4 of the Richter scale that some say have weakened the Dam’s structure. Kerala wish to build a new dam whilst lowering the water in the existing structure to make it safer until a new dam is built. Tamil Nadu believe the water level is already too low and the dam can take more water and is sufficiently strong to withhold whatever forces of nature throw at it. Lowering the level further would compromise their agricultural heartlands. Protests have come in the form of strikes, human chains and hunger strikes and fasts until death. At this stage little progress appears to be being made to come to some form of compromise between the two states that, until recently, have had excellent relations. A small point here on the nature of hunger strikes and fast until death and a few other terms.

Words. In India there are a few words that stretch the very definition to make them almost meaningless.

Hunger strike. A tactic used by many politicians and those with a cause. Used properly it can be an effective tool to attract attention to an issue and mobilise public opinion. A hunger strike suggests not eating for a sufficient amount of time to threaten ones health. In many cases in India it means a fast from breakfast to dinner or in some cases a chain hunger strike were people swap round to pop out for something to eat. A fast until death might mean skipping an evening meal as well.

The word pint commonly used as a measure of about 550ml. Many bars in Delhi for example have a drinks card with the word pint written on it. You order a pint and you get a 330ml bottle of beer. In the Kerala liquor shops the same redefinition is in place with all and sundry lined up asking for the mandatory “brandy pint” and walking away happily with their 330ml bottle wrapped up in newspaper or secreted inside a lungi to be demolished in two swigs at the first opportunity.

Before running a marathon in India it is best to ask how long the race is. Marathons come in all distances here 5km, 10km, 20km, two laps round a paddy field, half marathon sized marathons and occasionally even marathon distance marathons.

Resort. A resort suggests a beautiful beach or a secluded 5 star luxury retreat. A quick look round the hill tea-towns of Kerala and every run down, shambolic, half demolished, half built 3^rd rate hotel claims to be a resort (hotel itself is a food establishment, walk into a place with the word hotel asking for a room and you are likely to be asked to sit down and be served a milky tea and an egg curry) Usually taking ludicrous names like Whispering Pine Woods, Mist Filled Farm House Resorts, Lovedale Cottages etc etc.

Deluxe The word deluxe has lost all meaning, anything can be deluxe usually a byword for rubbish. Hence luxury-bus usually means a death trap on wheels. A super-deluxe bus is now synonymous with a bus made by Volvo. So Volvo bus can mean a you have actually booked a ticket on a Volvo bus but more likely any old bus with a Volvo sticker on the front sometimes spelt Volva or Vulvo or worse.

Yesterday I then ran a marathon then drunk a pint of brandy. In the evening I fasted until death before taking a luxury bus to my resort. Discuss…

Compensation For Camels

Another magic mountain bike tour up to the Pindari Glacier is over now its back down to the heat of Delhi and the most difficult job shifting all the bikes on to the next destination for the Himalaya Singalila Ridge Tour.

Delhi railway station and its time to book the bikes on to the train. We have 4 bikes to transfer the near 2000km to Darjeeling. There are two of us here, so with the help of a porter we manage to relay the bikes through the Diwali season festival rush, by-pass the airport style security set up with a friendly wave and make it on to platform 16 and the luggage booking compound. Boxes, motorbikes, cartons, crate of ever size and descriptions are piled high seemingly at random to be dispatched to all corners of India. I stand patiently at the back of the paper waving, shouting scrummage that is the booking window and I am rewarded with my papers being snatched away by an official who carries them through to the office. I am ushered forward through the crowd who appear quite content for me to be given preferential treatment. Smiles greet me from all sides. I pay up at the counter managing to get past the previously unheard of “one cycle one man” Indian Railways Rule by informing them that the bikes are in bags and we have 4 bags rather than 4 cycles. “That will be fine sir” I then pass back through the cheerful parting crowd that waits till I am at a safe distance then resumes its well-rehearsed scrummage.

Intrigued by the one man one cycle rule I read the small print on the back of the luggage receipt and come across some other little known rules. For example the maximum compensation claimable for damage or loss is limited to 150Rs per kilo so that values the bikes at less then £40 each. Furthermore loss of donkeys, mules and horses are valued at 1500Rs, if the Indian Railways manage to loose your Camel in transit then their liability is limited to a paltry 3500Rs. If your Elephant disappears from the luggage van of the Malabar Express then expect the railways to pay out no more than 7000 Rupees. All there in black and white on the back of the ticket.

The train arrives in New Jailpugari 5 hours late on what must be the worst, filthiest rolling stock belonging to Indian Railways. Second Class Sleeper. (NOTE TO POTENTIAL CUSTOMER. I promise we won’t put you though this it’s 1st Class only for you). I arrive on the neon light lit platform looking and feeling like a miner who has just escaped from a month long entombment in a pit. Bikes are here, papers are signed, more papers are signed, and we are off into the sweltering dark and our hotel for a beer or two and a good scrub up.

Bones

A bit new to this blogging while I am not in India but with a bust collarbone stopping me from doing anything much of interest I can share my ennui with you all.

Ten things that a broken collarbone has taught me.

It can make you obsessive. Seem to spend most of the day feeling the broken part in fear that it might come apart again at anytime.

I am obsessive, obsessive enough to make lists about 10 things that a broken collarbone has taught me.

Bonegunge. In the first week of broken misery, be careful not to accelerate your heart beat (so stay off the exercise) otherwise the precious healing material that medics called bonegunge will be washed away from the broken bit of your bones and you won’t ever stick back together again. Now they tell me.

Stay of the ale. Ale stops bonegunge and general healing. Late to learn this one. 4 weeks in and just learnt that and now it’s too late.

Erecting a cycle turbo trainer with only one arm is very difficult. As most users of turbo trainers presumably can only use one arm (no one would use them if they did not have a broken collarbone) manufacturers should take this into consideration.

Use of a turbo trainer for more than 1 hour a day 7 days in succession could be seen as signs of obsessive behavioural patterns.

Having a day off the turbo trainer turns you to drink and list making.

Joke of the week. When joining a broken collarbone online help group I was asked for a password of 8 characters so I went for Snow white and the 7 dwarfs.

Bradley Wiggins is in storming form in the Vuelta and he broke his collarbone about 8 weeks ago.

I am not Bradley Wiggins.

In the shadow of a 3-foot drop off

Dust rose up in mini plumes from the wheels of the bike in front. sweat dripped down from our helmets clinging onto our chins for a brief pause before being deposited onto the top tube as we crested the climb. The view from the saddle had never looked more promising. Clear blue skies, dry trails, a whole summer of riding possibilities opened up before us as did a long singletrack descent packed full of tight corners, rocks and a little bit of air. We descend. A techi drop in then a fast carving left then oops got this wrong. Thud. And so the summer stopped in the shadow of a three-foot drop off.
I gingerly pull myself up causing an unsettling grinding sensation somewhere under my chin. I quickly lay back down again on the sloping stony surface. My riding comrades John and Scott hover over me, running through the 1st aid drills whilst I lay prone. John calls an ambulance, which puts paid to any thoughts of walking down the mile or so off the moor to the local pub and working out a plan over a pint.
There is nothing else to do but stare at the sky, take in the warm sunshine, berate myself for stacking, field questions on how do you feel and wait for help. Which I guess is plenty to keep me occupied. Being in a remote spot it is the mountain rescue who comes to my aid. They are led by a calm, assured, cheerful fell running doctor, who quickly assesses the scene and runs through exactly what I’ve done to get in to this spot. The rest of the team arrive, huffing and puffing a little but they have the excuse of carrying a stretcher. After 10 minutes of pinching, prodding and probing questions like “what’s your age?” aimed at establishing signs of mental clarity; a rare psychological state at the best of times for me; we all concur that I am probably of low IQ and that it is nothing worse than a broken collarbone and bashed ribs. Given the option of being carried off the moor on a stretcher doesn’t appeal. The mountain rescue team are more concerned with my health than my humiliation but I can’t live this down; being carried off; unless both legs are broken. Talk of a stretcher has a galvanizing effect though ,and with a fair bit of help I am up off the floor, a bit shaky and dizzy, but good enough to walk. My left arm is slinged and more checks are done to make sure I am o.k. and good to make it off the moor on two legs. I begin to plod slowly at the head of a slightly comical looking procession comprised of a slinged up man, a sprightly, sure footed doctor, a stretcher team carrying an empty stretcher, two mountain bikers pushing bikes and a helpful young walker who had attached himself to my bike in the hope of riding it back down into the valley. The plod accelerates into a faux-jaunty walk that fools no one but myself before returning back to a more appropriate sedate plod as we approach the ambulance. I can’t be looking too good for the ambulance. I already feel like a fraud almost wishing the injuries were worse to justify all this help.
30 minutes in the ambulance and the fraud feelings are eased away by a combination of pain caused by the rough road and an understanding mountain bike enthusiast ambulance crew.
Arriving at accident and emergency in an ambulance appears to have the effect of an upgrade and I am whisked straight through to a nurse who also mountain bikes and then x-ray. I barely getting a chance to view the casualties in casualty watching Casualty on T.V. An episode featuring a small boy cycling towards an enormous truck doesn’t look promising.
In the x-ray room a burly man approaches “mountain bike?” “mountain bike”..,“wrist”..., “collarbone”..., “suchandsuch woods...” ‘Hebden...” “roots...” “drop off." Two broken monosyllabic mountain bikers commiserate.
I am out of X-RAY and its time to wait a while for the results and a doctor. Its busy now in the casualty waiting room, a man walks in dressed in his cricket whites looking frantic maybe looking for somebody, the mountain biker sits still as if in a trance, I am sat down still unchanged from my days ride complete with knee pads. A burly man with a decided whiff of ale on his breath sits next to me and leans in conspiratorially “been playing football lad?” I am rescued by my name being called out and I am through to a doctor who quickly tells me my collarbone is indeed broken. Another nurse puts on a new sling and says he will be riding tomorrow after his shift which makes me think of a made up statistic that should be true. 76% of NHS staff are keen mountain bikers.
I step outside the hospital and wrestle the phone from my pocket with my one free hand hoping to get a lift back home. By some appalling twist of fate a fly is waiting, literally in the wings, to play his part in the story. Here he comes zooming in to sight and into the back of a hospital-dried throat. Ribs and collarbone creak in unison, an agonizing half-cough is all I can muster. I can’t speak and can’t cough the fly up. I am back inside the hospital desperate for some water anything to stop me making the effort of another cough. The receptionist thinks something is seriously wrong before realizing I just need water. The obstruction is shifted but the voice doesn’t come back for days. Making me sound ridiculously weak.
And now a week on the blue skies have gone, the bike sits in the garage looking forlorn with a scuffed seat. It usually sits in the garage looking neglected with a scuffed seat so nothing new here. Bones heal as I sit about reading mountain bike magazines with my effected weak voice accepting and turning down offers of coffee and tea. In my case falling off the bike resulted in nothing too serious but as ever the Mountain Rescue, Ambulance staff, and doctors do a 1st class job, getting me out of a bad spot, from the shadow of a three-foot drop off and on to the road to recovery. As for hospital nursing staff 64% say they prefer treating mountain bikers to any other casualties.

Freezer Box

3500 km. That is the distance between Kuttikanam and Nainital. Replacing tropical mountains, cast of half mad characters, easy nights with a few beers and the cracking bike trails of the south with the Himalayan foothills, cast of madder characters, easy nights with a beer….same, same but different.
For a once a in a lifetime experience (3rd time now) I took the 1st class train mainly to secure the safe passage of the double bike bagged cycles rather than risking booking them in the brake van under a pallet load of mangoes. With a 1st class ticket you can do as you want. So the bikes, tool box, bag of bike parts and a rucksack full of clothes were all squeezed on board.
Everthing in 1st class is on a grander scale, there is more space, beds are bigger, food comes in three courses, fellow passengers are bigger and fatter, there are more attendants and their demands for bribes are equally on a grander scale. 3000Rs was demanded for the “heavy luggage” a 1st class fee, for what? I asked. “Booking fee”. 100 Rs in lower classes normally secures a full berth for an enormous bag. I just ignored the demands and dragged the bag into the carriage resisting any offers of paid or unpaid help. This act of lower class rebellion coupled with my decidedly 2nd class dress and quite possibly 3rd class unreserved, feverish, every man for himself mad eyed look seemed to quell the ambitions of the attendants until 2000Rs? A voice rose up, an attendant appeared from behind the bag who must have attached himself limpet like and unnoticed to the baggage and as a consequence been dragged into the carriage alongside my belongings. .
For the 36 hours in the 4 bed a.c freezer box carriage I had few companions. The 1st night had one more passenger who left early morning, late for his stop. The driver whose job it seems was to enter the train, wake him up, pack his clothes and carry the cases off the train was late. There was some shouting and banging on doors, phones ringing, a man entered the room in the dark. Swearing, screaming, volleys of abuse the two men swept out of the carriage in a bundle it was too late the train was moving, more shouting, a cord pulled, the train grinds to halt, passengers scramble down on to the track watched by a seemingly unperturbed ticket inspector, perhaps this is common in 1st class.
For the rest of the journey its pleasant, the carriage shakes along at around 70k an hour heading for Delhi, I am fed, previously recalcitrant attendants switch track from the get rich quick scheme to ingratiating smiles, bows and supplicant hand gestures the battle for tips has now beguin.